


But Also in the Afternoon and in the Evening

by triedunture



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-27
Updated: 2008-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:39:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A (slashy) Jeeves POV of the events and immediate aftermath of Joy in the Morning. Some dialog stolen directly from the book. Sorry PG!</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Also in the Afternoon and in the Evening

  


Title: But Also in the Afternoon and in the Evening  
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster  
Rating: PG  
Words: 5600  
Warnings: spoilers for Joy, a bit of UST angst, a bit of fluff  
Summary: A (slashy) Jeeves POV of the events and immediate aftermath of Joy in the Morning. Some dialog stolen directly from the book. Sorry PG!

<><><>

It was with a heavy heart that I left Mr Wooster standing in the garden before the still-smoking ruins of Wee Nooke. What I had intended to be a gaily festive respite from the metropolis' summer crowds was now turning into a dispiriting disaster. I confess to myself and this journal that perhaps I did wish to take in some of the excellent fishing that Steeple Bumpleigh had to offer, that is true. But I had intended this sojourn to be of the benefit of Mr Wooster as well. Unless, of course, I use 'benefit' quite wrongly here.

I believe I am now falling prey to the whimsical devices that plague my young master when writing down his own thoughts in his memoirs: I have begun this story too far ahead without the proper exposition. Perhaps it would serve me well to recall the peculiar situations that had landed my employer so deep in the soup at Steeple Bumpleigh. 'Soup' being a metaphor for troubles, not, in fact, the second course of an evening meal. It is a delightful affectation of Mr Wooster's that I have inadvertently absorbed after so many years in his presence. But I digress.

In short, it had transpired that my former employer, Lord Worplesdon, the second husband of Mr Wooster's Aunt Agatha and father of Mr Wooster's ex-fiancee, Florence Craye, was in need of some assistance. He wished to find a quiet place to meet with a Mr Clam from America; their businesses were merging and they wished to come to terms away from the prying eyes of the press. His Lordship, knowing my practised ease in executing such things, asked for my help. I admit I saw an opportunity.

I volunteered Mr Wooster to take the cottage of Wee Nooke in Steeple Bumpleigh. There, in that tiny house owned by His Lordship, the two titans of industry could meet in peace. No one seemed to question why Mr Wooster should take the cottage; indeed, it would have been just as simple for Lord Worplesdon to meet Mr Clam in the cottage (or anywhere else for that matter) under cover of darkness without Mr Wooster being at all involved. It came to no one's notice that Steeple Bumpleigh, while a charming township in many respects, is not exactly known for its rabid newspaper reporters.

No, I decided to work Mr Wooster into these plans for my own selfish means. You might accuse me of simply bending to my weakness for the sport of fishing. You would be incorrect to do so. Foremost in my mind, even before the rod and reel, was the need to seclude Mr Wooster in a small homestead, away from the prying eyes of his friends in the metropolis. In this respect, His Lordship's needs and my own were well-matched. I, too, had an important potential merger to discuss.

Before you accuse me of impropriety, let me assure you: I have never taken liberties with any employer, least of all Mr Wooster. Heretofore, my valeting positions have consisted of nothing more than my normal duties. My emotions have never clouded my judgement when it comes to doing what I do best. But after years of exerting all my intellect on the subject, I have arrived at the irrevocable conclusion: I am an invert, and nothing I do or think will ever change that. However, I repeat, this state of being has never had any effect on my ability to conform to the rigours of my profession.

To be blunt, I learnt long ago to tamp down on the baser instincts which drive men of my disposition. So when I speak of joining with Mr Wooster, I do not allude merely to the sexual act. No, this low servant, this unworthy cupbearer, this Reginald Jeeves was--how else can I say it but this?--completely in love. I cannot explain it any more than I can explain why the wind blows cool in the evening and the flowers turn to the sun in the morning. It simply is. I had tried for months to restrain these emotions as I had with my more physical impulses, but it did no good.

After much thought, I had arrived at the conclusion that I would have to tell Mr Wooster about this state of affairs and prepare myself for whatever might happen afterwards. Of course, I wasn't about to leap headlong into the uncertain gulf; if I was going to deliver my heart to Mr Wooster on a silver platter next to his afternoon refresher, I was going to do it properly. At the very worst, the gentle employer I knew would send me away with a letter of recommendation and carefully hidden disgust in his eyes. At the very best, perhaps Mr Wooster would entertain the notion of indulging me and my tender emotions.

I knew that it wouldn't do to reveal these feelings during the normal course of the day. In the Berkeley flat, Mr Wooster has only had the chance to see me in the capacity of his valet. I wanted him to see me in a new fashion, and a different setting was what was needed. Hence my eagerness to transport Mr Wooster to the cottage of Wee Nooke, where I hoped for long, quiet hours alone with him. Such a place would give me ample opportunity to broach the subject of my feelings.

But of course, one can never account for the wrenches that meddlesome children might throw into one's plans.

I allude to the workings of young Edwin, the son of Lord Worplesdon and a sobering example of the future of this country. I do not hold much affection for children on the whole; being the youngest in my own family, I never had much exposure to them. But I know instinctively that this Master Edwin is the most awful of the entire lot. It was Edwin, after all, who burnt Wee Nooke to its very foundations within moments of my master's arrival. I send a thankful prayer to heaven that Mr Wooster was not injured in the conflagration, but this does not blunt my feelings towards the frightful Edwin. Because of his machinations, my dreams of quiet evenings in the snug cottage beside Mr Wooster were dashed against the rocks of misfortune.

I was summoned to Bumpleigh Hall to assist Lord Worplesdon with his now-ruined plans, and Mr Wooster went to stay with his friend, Mr Fittleworth. On taking my leave of my master, I could at least take comfort in the fact that he said he would miss me. He also compared me to a gazelle, but when one serves a master with such a unique perspective on life, one learns to take such statements as a compliment.

So I moved on to the Hall, where I quickly went to work rearranging the secret meeting between His Lordship and Mr Clam. It was a simple matter to move the scene of the discussion to His Lordship's potting shed at midnight. After informing the interested parties of the new plans, I had very little to do with myself. I toyed with the idea of visiting Mr Wooster in his exile at Mr Fittleworth's, but it was getting late and I didn't wish to intrude. I took myself, therefore, on a late-night walk in the gardens. Obstinately, I told myself I only wanted to ensure the midnight meeting went smoothly, but I really sought the solitude to brood on the unlucky turn of events.

If I couldn't make my feelings known to Mr Wooster during this visit to the country, when would I? I loved him with every fibre of my being, and yet I allowed fear to eat at me. I berated myself for this hesitation. The circumstances may never be right. The perfect time may never come. Would I live in this self-imposed hell forever? Had I no courage to speak of?

These were the thoughts that were swirling round in my head when I heard a sharp yip in the darkness up ahead. I suppressed the startled jump of my heart; stepping forward, I could see it was Mr Wooster. He was a vision in the starlight: his golden hair, his dancing blue eyes, his flushed cheeks, his parted mouth. He was so, so beautiful.

'Good evening, sir,' I said, for I could not think of anything else to say to this apparition. 'You gave me quite a start.'

'Nothing to the one you gave me,' he gasped. His pale fingers clutched at his chest as if reaching to quiet his own heart. 'I thought the top of my head would come off.'

'I am sorry to have been the cause of your experiencing any discomfort, sir. I was unable to herald my approach, the encounter being quite unforeseen.' I paused, considering the ramifications. It was midnight in a quiet village, and here was Mr Wooster, creeping through the grounds of Bumpleigh Hall like a shadow. Could he--could he possibly have been coming to see me? Is this that perfect moment that I'd been wishing for? 'You are up late, sir,' I whispered.

He nodded, licking his lips and glancing over his shoulder. 'Yes.'

I took a deep breath and decided that I would plunge ahead. I needed to be brave if I ever wished this man to know that I loved him. 'One could scarcely desire more delightful conditions for a nocturnal ramble,' I began slowly.

'That is your view, is it?' He appeared to be most agitated. I thought to put him at ease.

'It is indeed, sir. I always feel that nothing is so soothing as a walk in a garden at night.' I took a step closer to him; I could smell a faint whiff of his citrus cologne. Clean, crisp, with a hint of spice. I longed to take him in my arms press my face to the crook of his neck to inhale that intoxicating aroma. But I resisted. I wanted this to be perfectly beautiful.

For his part, Mr Wooster made a sort of nervous huffing sound. The dear man. I stepped closer.

'The cool air. The scent of,' I breathed in, 'growing things. That is tobacco plant which you can smell, sir.'

'Is it?' he replied absently.

I cursed myself for tossing in the bit of useless trivia. I was supposed to be wooing, not pontificating on local flora. It would be prudent to return the topic of conversation to something suitably romantic.

'The stars, sir,' I offered.

'Stars?'

'Yes, sir.' I looked into his eyes, lively even in the gloom. Oh, to look in those eyes each morning when I rose...

'What about them?' Mr Wooster asked.

I blinked. 'I was merely directing your attention to them, sir.' I cleared my throat. If my own words were lacking, then perhaps the words of The Bard would give voice to my emotions. 'Look how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold.'

'Jeeves?'

'There's not the smallest orb which thou beholdest, sir, but in his motion like an angel sings, still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims.'

'Jeeves--'

But I could not stop, not when the lines that held my heart's secret were on the tip of my tongue. 'Such harmony is in immortal souls. But whilst this muddy vesture of decay doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it,' I said softly. There was a short pause, during which I think we were both shocked, not only at my bold words, but at my lack of the usual honorific while addressing Mr Wooster.

'Jeeves,' he said.

'Sir?' I whispered.

'You couldn't possibly switch it off, could you?'

I dropped my eyes to the ground, glad for the darkness that hid my flushed face. 'Certainly, sir. If you wish it.'

'I'm not in the mood,' he murmured, looking over his shoulder once more.

'Very good, sir.'

'You know how one isn't, sometimes,' he said, and proceeded to tell me about recent happenings, including Mr Fittleworth's unfortunate luncheon with Lord Worplesdon. I endeavoured to listen attentively, but my mind was set firmly on my shame. Mr Wooster had not come to meet me in a nighttime tryst; he had come to help Mr Fittleworth rise in His Lordship's eyes by effecting a staged robbery.

I had never felt so foolish in my life. Yet Mr Wooster didn't question my strange statements that night in the garden. Throughout the next few days in Steeple Bumpleigh, he came rushing to me whenever he could, clinging to me as a cub to its mother when danger is in the air. I did not enjoy this usual unravelling of events, and I confess that in a few instances, I framed my suggestions to the problems in a way that would make Mr Wooster distinctly uncomfortable. The idea of Mr Wooster 'ticking off' his uncle, for example, was mine. As was the plan to kick young Edwin in the seat of his pants. (Despite his own distaste for the young creature, Mr Wooster is a gentle, kind-hearted person, and it took no small amount of effort to convince him to follow through on the plan.) Dressing Mr Wooster in Mr Cheesewright's stolen policeman's uniform was also my doing. All of these plots were designed to exact some revenge, I suppose, on Mr Wooster. It was a childish and regrettable reaction, of course, but I am as human as any man. My bruised pride allowed the devil to whisper in my ear.

At any rate, none of these plots were designed to put Mr Wooster in any real danger; I had planned for every contingency. However, at the end of the adventure, with Mr Fittleworth winning the hand of Miss Hopwood and Lord Worplesdon procuring his contract in safety, Mr Wooster was still in the dangerous position of being engaged to Lady Florence. And I felt frozen to do anything about it.

'You are baffled?' Mr Wooster asked me, his own visage betraying his incredulity.

I hesitated before saying, 'For the moment, sir, unquestionably.' I had the strange, cold feeling that we had come full circle. I had come into Mr Wooster's employ during his first engagement to Lady Florence. Now here we were once more, with wedding bells sounding in the distance. Come September, Mr Wooster would be a married man. And I would be promptly dismissed, for I knew Lady Florence's feelings on married men keeping valets.

Throughout this reverie of mine, Mr Wooster was babbling on about fish. He waved me towards the kitchen with orders to eat some and brood, to bend all my mind to the problem of Her Ladyship. I withdrew from Mr Fittleworth's sitting room as I was told.

I paced the length of the kitchen floor, ruminating with all my might. I could easily devise a strategy with which to destroy the engagement, but should I? Perhaps, I thought, Mr Wooster's marriage to the Lady would be for the best. Could I be unselfish for once and allow Mr Wooster a chance at a normal family life? One might have hoped for a different candidate than Florence Craye, but she was strong and intelligent and wilful; she was not unlike others who loved Mr Wooster and wanted him to be happy, I thought with burning shame. Was this where I was to bow out with as much grace as I could manage?

I folded my hands behind my back. I would stand aside and allow this to happen as it was surely meant to happen. It would be nothing short of pathetic to continue shielding Mr Wooster from eligible ladies until we were both old and grey. Whom was I trying to fool? He would never feel anything for me, and it was cruelty to keep him bound like this. Mr Wooster would mourn his fate for awhile, but certainly he would adapt to the circumstances in time.

I closed my eyes against the pain of this thought: his children, undoubtedly, would be beautiful.

I heard the door open behind me, and I steeled myself for the thing I was about to do. I turned round, mumbling something about there being no fish left in the kitchen. I hoped he would see my apology in my eyes. But when I looked up to meet his gaze, he was grinning madly.

What Mr Wooster said next was a torrent of jumbled phrases: 'Never mind! Anchovy! Stilton! Florence! Reconciled! Wedding! Off! Steeple Bumpleigh!? Dash it, let's go!'

It has often been my pleasure to translate Mr Wooster's breathless shouts into the Queen's English. From this sequence of ejaculations, I ascertained that Mr Wooster had just discovered that Mr Cheesewright and Lady Craye had overcome their differences and resumed their own engagement. This was wonderful news, and my heart rose on gilded wings to hear it. All my fine intentions of mere moments ago were gone, replaced by a nameless relief that God in His heaven had somehow saved me.

I am not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, as it were.

'The car is by the door, sir,' I answered, and we sped off without even packing the luggage. About halfway to London, Mr Wooster finally spoke up from the passenger seat about the events of the past few days.

'There's a phrase that would neatly sum up the nub of these recent proceedings, Jeeves. What's that wheeze, that gag? Something about Joy doing something.'

'Joy cometh in the morning, sir?' I asked with a benevolent quirk of my lips.

'That's the baby. Not one of yours, is it?'

'No, sir.'

'Well, it's dashed good.' He lowered the brim of his hat over his eyes against the bright morning sun. 'Dashed good.'

I watched him doze while I steered the two-seater onward to home. All was, as Mr Wooster said, rather good. I now reflected how miserable I had been, keeping the knowledge of my inner feelings to myself. Yet at this moment, I felt I could love Mr Wooster silently for all my days; while I remained at his side, I could never be all that unhappy. For times like these, when Mr Wooster was happy and relaxed, I would bottle these inappropriate emotions until they dissipated like mist faced with the rising sun. I might never feel the touch of my heart's desire, nor hear words of love from his lips, but I was near him. And that is all I would ever ask.

As I arrived at this conclusion, the two-seater gave a startling series of bangs from the vicinity of its engine. Mr Wooster sat straight up in his seat. 'Oh, no. Not again,' he wailed.

'Sir?' I managed to guide the ailing vehicle to the side of the country road, where it stuttered to a stop.

'It did this same thing last night on the way to the fancy dress ball,' Mr Wooster sighed. 'A chappie in a lorrie helped me out, but I'm afraid I don't remember exactly what he did. A lot of fooling round under the hood, is what I recall.'

'I will attempt to solve the problem, sir,' I said, exiting the driver's seat. I removed my suit coat and, because I had no sleeve guards with me, rolled my shirtsleeves to my elbows. The hood popped open to expel a large cloud of acrid smoke. I coughed at the unpleasant smell, as did Mr Wooster; he had sidled up beside me to peer over my shoulder.

'I don't know much about automobiles, Jeeves, but if you need someone to hold a part or tap a peddle, I'm your man.'

'Thank you, sir.' I dug my hands into the depths of the car's insides, grimacing at the grease accumulating on my fingers. 'However, it would be necessary to discover the root of the problem first.'

It seemed that one of the aluminium connecting rods had come loose; such mishaps were common with the '28 model. I attempted to reconnect it to the crankcase manually, but I soon saw I would need a tool of some sort. My hands were too large for the job at hand.

'Do we have a screwdriver or a similar instrument in the glove box, sir?'

Mr Wooster leapt to the task, but reported a mournful negative. 'Just gloves, Jeeves. Bally useless.'

I hummed in consternation, glancing up and down the otherwise empty road. It might be several hours before another vehicle happened upon us, I thought. I wiped the sweat from my brow. It was an awfully warm morning.

'I say,' Mr Wooster gasped, returning to my side. 'You've got dirt on you, Jeeves. Here.'

He fished his handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it aloft in his slim hand. I examined the appendage with curiosity. Mr Wooster held the flagging handkerchief out for me still. 'What is it?' he asked.

I took his hand in mine, murmuring an apology for the grime I was now transferring to his skin. The handkerchief was plucked from his slack fingers, and I guided his hand into the warm recesses of the vehicle, past the searing hot engine. 'I believe your hands are slight enough to reach the afflicted part of the machinery, sir,' I said. 'You should feel a thin rod of metal. Can you reach it?'

'Yes, I think so.' The tip of his pink tongue stuck out in a most distracting manner. 'I suppose this is one good thing about keeping a willowy form, what?'

'Indeed, sir.' I gave his wrist a nudge and the appropriate metallic click indicated that the problem had been fixed. 'The two-seater should now be in working order.'

'Right-o.' Mr Wooster withdrew his hand and wiped it across his brow. He looked at me with a wide grin. 'I've never seen you look less impeccable,' he said, though in truth, he now had a smear of dirt at his temple, as I'm sure I had on mine.

I dropped my gaze. 'I'm sorry, sir. I will be in better form directly.' It was most unfortunate to be so unkempt in front of my employer. I took the handkerchief that had been bunched in my left hand and attempted to dab the offending grease from my face.

'No, no. You'll never get it without a mirror. Give it to Bertram.' He took the white square of cloth from me and reached up to wipe at my forehead. I stood motionless, not knowing what to do or say, and not wishing his ministrations to cease.

Mr Wooster swiped the handkerchief down my cheek as well. 'What were you saying the other night, Jeeves?'

'Sir?'

Another swipe. I was unmoving, powerless against the assault. 'You were talking about the stars and things. Was it your own?'

'No, sir. It was Shakespeare.'

'I'd like to hear the rest of it. How did it go?'

'I was under the impression, sir, that you were not in the mood for such talk.' I regarded the smudges on his own fair skin. 'If you would allow me to perform the same service for you, sir,' I said, reaching to take the handkerchief from him.

'No, dash it, you still have a bit on you,' he admonished. Then, returning to the original topic, 'I may not have been in the mood at the time, Jeeves. But now, with such a splendid day ahead of us, I wish to know, what was it?'

I swallowed. He was now caressing the fabric down the column of my throat. How grime had adhered to that area, I have no idea. 'It was a passage from _The Merchant of Venice_ , sir.'

Mr Wooster drew back, his eyes wide. 'Not the ditty with the "pound of flesh" gag? I say, that was always the one that brought me down in Rhetoric. Ghastly business.'

I steeled my jaw and examined the tips of my shoes; they were coated in a fine layer of travelling dust and would need to be cleaned when we arrived back in London. (Why hadn't I chosen one of the sonnets? My eyes burned with the weight of holding back shameful tears.)

'One's mind wanders, sir, during late-night ambulations. Forgive me for alluding to that which displeases you.'

His sullied handkerchief was still passing over my brow in a rhythmic fashion. 'Tosh. The bit about the quiring young-eyed thingummys was rather lovely. Are you sure it was _Merchant_? Not _Much Ado_? Perhaps a splash of _Midsummer's_?'

'It was as I said, sir.' I chanced a glance up from the ground to find Mr Wooster smiling with all the strength of sunshine at me. He was having a laugh at my expense, I could see that now. I pulled away from his stroking hand, which had found its way to the line of my jaw.

'We should continue onward, sir,' I murmured, closing the automobile's hood with more force than was absolutely necessary.

'Hold on there, Jeeves. What about your hands? Give them here.' He made a grab for my filthy palms, but I pulled them away. I had no desire to withstand even more of his innocent touches while my heart quivered in my chest with the pain of restraining silence.

'You needn't--' I began.

'I bally well--' Mr Wooster made another attempt at capturing my hands. I stepped back even further. Mr Wooster then _leapt_ at me, his own greasy hands reaching out in what I suppose might have been a playful motion, but my fears for my starched white shirt forced me backwards once more. Unfortunately, Mr Wooster tripped on a loose stone in the grass and came stumbling towards me. Acting on my instinct to save him from a nasty fall, I reached out for him, but I lost my footing as well. We were both falling back.

It is the normal practise in the country to dig deep ditches beside the unpaved roads. It was one such grassy ditch that Mr Wooster and I descended into, tumbling head over feet. My young master let out a startled yelp as we hit the bottom, and I condensed my exclamations to a small grunt of discomfort. After laying there in the sweet-smelling grass for a moment, it became clear to me that we had both survived the ordeal without injury. It seemed that we had wrapped ourselves into a tangle mid-fall, and my hands were now cupped protectively around the back of Mr Wooster's skull.

To his credit, Mr Wooster was laughing gaily after only a few beats of silence. He picked his head up from where it was tucked against my shoulder and looked at me with those sparkling eyes. 'I haven't rolled down a hill in years!' he cried. 'Lord, it's still as fantastic as ever. Are you all right, Jeeves? You have quite a few twigs in your hair.'

And he began picking the bits of local flora off my head. Mr Wooster was, as I'm sure you can imagine, still entwined with me on the grass, laying atop me, in fact. My hands had not yet moved from their position in his fair hair. Our bodies were pressed together like lovers. Our chests, heaving with gasping lungs and pounding hearts, came together with every breath. His gaze, so bright and beautiful, was concentrated on his task of putting my mussed hair to rights.

No, I decided. I couldn't keep silent. Not about this. Not about how this felt.

'Sir--' I said, but my voice was a pale shadow of what it should have been. 'I--'

'Jeeves,' he interrupted my weak beginnings, 'you're an absolute mess. I'm sorry if I seem to be delighting in this fact, but it's just so wonderful.' He combed his fingers through some wayward strands of my hair, and I resisted the urge to lean into his gentle touch. 'What I mean to say is,' he continued, 'sometimes you see something in one light all the bally time and then suddenly you don't? Like a vase on the side table. You pass it by every day, thinking when you see it, oh, hullo, it's a vase. And then one day you see someone sticking a used-up gasper in its maw and you realise, belatedly of course, that it's an ash-tray.'

I blinked up at him. 'You think me an ash-tray, sir?'

He gave a sputtering chuckle. 'No no no. I think-- Well, Jeeves, I think you're...' He sobered suddenly, looking down at me with a strange light in his eyes. My fingers tightened in his hair. 'You're not an ash-tray,' he murmured.

I squeezed my eyes shut and took a steadying breath. Now was the time: not a quiet evening in a secluded cottage, or a midnight stroll in a beautiful garden, but in the middle of the morning in a ditch. 'Forgive me, sir,' I said, 'for what I am about to do.' And I pulled him down to meet my lips.

It was nothing more than a warm brush of mouths, but I put all my pent-up love into the kiss, the way I held his head, and the press of my body against his. Then I withdrew my lips from his, and with eyes still closed against the unknown, I whispered, 'You are right, sir. Some things are not as they appear at first blush.'

'I say,' he said softly.

'I am not the obedient servant you take me for,' I continued, bent to the task of confessing all. 'I have, for no small amount of time, been concealing a facet of myself from you, sir. Over the course of these past few days, I have vacillated between revealing this secret to you and keeping it hidden for your own safety. But I am much too weak for the latter task. I am in love with you, sir. And whatever the ramifications of that might be, you must believe it to be true.' I said this last part very quietly, finishing in a near-whisper.

'I'm not sure I do,' Mr Wooster said.

I opened my eyes then, startled by the blatant dismissal of this, my most intimate heart. But my protests died on my lips; Mr Wooster was not looking down at me with barely concealed disgust, but unmitigated wonder.

'You're in love with this Wooster?' he said. 'How is such a thing possible? You're-- Jeeves, you could have anyone you wanted.'

I dared caress his willowy jaw. 'No, sir. I cannot. Not as far as I can tell.'

'Jeeves,' he breathed, 'forgive the young master for pulling aside the curtain in a Bumpleigh ditch, but you don't really think I wanted to take an insufferable country cottage just to lend my Uncle Percy a hand, what? He didn't even require my presence in the first place.'

I frowned. 'Then why did you agree to my plans, sir?'

He pursed his lips in his boyish way. 'You wanted to fish. And I wanted you in a pleasant mood when I sprung the news on you. But all these bally relatives and school chums kept waltzing in and--'

'News, sir?' I asked. 'What news?'

He flushed a fetching shade of pink across his cheeks. 'Would you force me to say it aloud when you already know how I feel?' He sighed. 'You must know I love you, Jeeves. You must have known it all this time. Leave it to you, Jeeves, to set up this elaborate ruse in a ditch to make me feel as if I have the upper hand.'

'Sir?'

'How can I thank you, Jeeves?' Mr Wooster whispered, kissing me on the mouth with all of his might. I accepted the embrace like he was the sun and I, the vine. And when we pulled apart, he said, 'If you hadn't staged this little scene, I may have never found the courage to come clean. Though I suppose we're both quite grimy at the moment.'

'Sir--'

'Of course you had the entire situation under control. But really, Jeeves, did you expect me to believe you were a frightened lovesick pup? It doesn't suit you at all.' He dropped another kiss on my lips. 'It sure did the trick, though. I couldn't say the three little words fast enough, once you looked up at me with those sad baby blues. How do you get them so blue, anyway?'

'Sir.'

'Jeeves?'

I licked my kiss-swollen lips. And then decided to hold my tongue, so to speak. 'Perhaps,' I said slowly, 'we should make our journey back home with all due haste, so that we may continue this conversation in comfort?'

'Excellent idea, Jeeves.' He kissed my ear. 'You know what I believe, Jeeves?' He kissed my brow. 'I believe Joy cometh in the morning,' he kissed my throat, 'but also in the afternoon,' underneath my chin, 'and in the evening,' my eyelid, 'and possibly well into the night and the following morning.'

'Incredibly astute, sir,' I said, returning the favour. 'As always.'

 

 

fin.  



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